Dead Girls The bodies of the two Khmer girls, wasted birds, were found on the banks of Tonlé Sap lake in Siem Reap. A Vietnamese fisherman found them. Their eyes looked as split lychees. Their tiny skeletal hands were clutching fishing threads. Chanda and Ariya had found the fishing line discarded amongst the other fishermen junk strewn on the banks. The line was easy enough to find even in their delirium. The younger girl, Ariya, the one with a long gone propensity towards plumpness, hatched an idea. They would catch a fish. Then they would take the fish to someone with a fire and share the fish between the three of them. Who doesn’t like fish? Surely not someone with a stove. That kind of person is obviously fish-ready. But first, the problem of catching the fish. “We need a hook.” Chanda said. After much searching. Chanda found a safety pin. And then Ariya found an old hook. They tied the hooks onto the lines. They impotently hurled them into the water, the hooks barely going further than a couple of feet. They saw another fisherman cast out lines. How is he doing it? They asked one of the fisherman for a weight. The fisherman dismissed the dirty little animals. They have no business fishing here. None of them do. But especially someone without the gear. Chanda stood her ground. Ariya shuffled off as if distracted by an invisible lure. A fisherman beside him, he also saw the want in Chanda’s eyes, the pathetic skein of fishing line in her hand but responded to Ariya’s despondence. He lead them to a spot. He took her line and to its end he tied a hook, a sinker and a float with an improbably swiftness. He put a bit of bait on the end of her line. They regarded all this, mesmerized by the process. By his high functioning. He hurled out their line. Ariya motioned him to do the same for her. He did. He left them sitting by the bank. Ariya and Chanda quietly sat and waited. Chanda and Ariya met on the street begging, long since separated from mothers that could not look after themselves in the provinces. The tourists frequently overlook the little beggar girls. Girls are not part of the beggar archetypes that do well, or as well as a beggar can do begging the streets of Siem Reap. Consider the amputee. In this glorious meritocracy, where anyone can surely prevail if they’re willing and able, who wouldn’t give money to the guy without arms and legs? What else can he do? That’s the end of the line. Same goes for the really old people to a lesser extent. That said, they are old. They’ve had their chance. How did they play their cards that badly in life to end up like this at this late stage of the journey? Surely they’ve had a lifetime to make friends, garner resources, have a family. What the hell were these people doing all their lives prior to getting old? Didn’t they know they they were going to be old? How about The Mother? Given each of us were born to mothers (with rare exceptions), who wouldn’t give some money to a mother with a barely conscious baby resting at her breast? Not the kids though. “They should be in school.” Declares one tourist. “Disgraceful. Parents exploiting their kids like that.” “Don’t give them money.” Says another. “The only way to help these kids is through community awareness. The community has to do something. Put their foot down.” Drifting from street to street Ariya and Chanda didn’t know English so could only motion to the bountiful plates of the resentful foreigners. It’s not that us diners are not compassionate or ungenerous, but show some consideration! We’re eating! The worst time to handle filthy money, an object that has everyones germs on it, an object that has exchanged hands after having been to the toilet or worse, is when you are handling your fresh tacos. It’s just not going to happen kid. And as for food, this is my food. I didn’t order it and wait all this time for it and subsequently be expected to pay for it, only to throw it away. Jesus. The diners thought. The restaurant owner shooed them away. Sometimes Chanda and Ariya would get some food. They’d share their takings, where possible. Mostly these meager morsels are not worth sharing and are barely sufficient for one, so to split it would be like nothing. The offer would be made and appreciated, and then the other would decline. “No. That’s OK. You have it. It’s too small.” “Lets recast the lines somewhere else.” Ariya said. Chanda said they must stay. They don’t know how to cast fishing lines. This is where the fisherman said. The nearby fisherman, not 3 metres away, also had not caught anything this entire time and he knows what he’s doing. This is a waiting game. So they must wait. Besides she is tired. Chanda felt a tug on her line. Resistance. Excited, they reeled it in, with all their might. The nearby fisherman looked aside bemused. Battling the weight of the fish, it’s strength and the drag of the lake. They pulled it out. Ariya held aloft a plastic bottle filled with lake water. Disgusted she discarded the bottle, the fishing line trailing behind. They tried to throw the lines out again without success. The hooks landed nowhere. They slumped down. It’s getting dark. Chanda, weak, knew it was time for rest. “Tomorrow.” Ariya said.
Posted on: Mon, 27 Oct 2014 11:07:34 +0000
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